Book 4: The Bitter Gift of Compassion
by Soledad
Summary: Boromir dislikes Elven secrecy. Legolas suggests Strider to do something about it. But then someone else comes along and takes things into his own hand. Repost, without ch 3, respecting the new rules.
1. Chapter 1: Evenstar

**THE BITTER GIFT OF COMPASSION**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.

**Author's notes:**

This is Book 4 of ''Fall before Temptation'', my Boromir story arc. As the few people who read the first version can certainly notice, I have drastically twisted the plot while working on it.

These events happen shortly after Boromir's arrival in Rivendell. Unlike in the book, I postponed Elrond's Council about a month, to make it possible for Aragorn and Boromir to become friends. Unfortunately, it did not work out. Those guys stubbornly resisted my feeble approaches, and I almost abandoned the whole story because I felt I could do nothing new with this pairing. But then someone whom I would never have dreamed of came along, with his own needs, and suddenly the whole thing worked like a charm!

The betrothed of Elrohir is called Aquiel. She is my creation, but I very much doubt that she would play any significant role in any of my stories. I just felt that at least one of Elrond's children should marry within his own Kin. And someone of Gildor's family seemed a proper spouse.

Also, this is a re-post of the story, without any changes. I only managed to eradicate some more of the nasty typos.

And now, on we go.

**CHAPTER ONE: EVENSTAR**

Boromir spent the next few days in his own room, across Elrond's home, on the other side of the rocky river bed. He suspected that something was going on in the main house, not the least for Glorfindel had mentioned something about Strider not having come to Imladris alone, but he knew better than ask. The Elves would never tell him anything. That much he had understood from his first, awkward encounter with the Lord Elrond.

He sat on the large balcony of the guest house, watching the valley turn into the soft golden and copper and rosty brown tints of autumn in the fading light of the setting sun. No-else than him and Legolas' escort – of whom he only heard the soft raining of songs in the tongue of the Wood-Elves which he did not understand – dwelt in this house, and though he welcomed the timeless peace of his dwellings after all the horrors of war that were all too vivid in his troubled mind, it, too, made him angry, for it was clear that the Elves trusted him less than that lowly Ranger and his so far unseen travelling companions. Him, whose ancestors had protected the South with their lives for countless centuries! Him, who had spent all his life in battles – minor skirmishes and bloody, vicious fights against cruel Orc-hosts that outnumbered his own troops at least thrice at any given time.

How well he remembered that last battle, defending the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath! The hopeless struggle against an enemy so powerful they had not the slightest chance to win… the anguish and terror when the shadow of dark wings fell upon the battle-weary men, filling their brave hearts with madness and fear… The pale, pained face of Faramir when that evil force hit him, piercing his heart with darkness…

Boromir was in the company that held the bridge, until it was cast down behind them. Four only were saved by swimming: his brother and himself and two others. So many good men were slain – and for what? They could not even hold the bridge. And even the four of them who escaped came not away untouched. For a dark shadow clouded their hearts from that very day on, and no-one of them was the same they used to be before that battle. The least of them Faramir.

Faramir, his beloved brother, keeper of the unfortunate gift to see the future – or, at least, to see strange dreams about what might come. From early childhood on was the younger son of Denethor gifted – or cursed – with those dreams that caused him great pain but that sometimes helped him to save himself and his men, too. It was a gift, common in the House of Stewards; their father, too, had been haunted by it all his life (and a long and hard life it was). Only Boromir himself had been spared – til the shadow fell upon his heart, too, under that ruined bridge.

Were Faramir here, on his stead, might he be able to win the Elves' trust with his soft words and controlled manners and untimely wisdom? Boromir could not know, nor could he guess. But he found it unsettling – and insulting – for Gondor's Heir to be held less trustworthy than a mere Ranger, even one that had been raised by the Elves of this very dale, and his grudge grew with every passing day.

He longed for an end to his involuntary visit – and errand he was only sent on for the wrath of his father about something he could not rule willingly: his own heart, the feelings that dwelt in it, a forbidden love he could not bleed out, no matter how hard he tried. He longed to learn the meaning of that cursed riddle and return to Minas Tirith, his shining city under the evil shadow of the Dark Realm. There he was needed. There were his people who trusted him, who respected him, who counted on him. No-one would dare to shut him out in Minas Tirith when important decisions were made. Now he understood more Faramir's bitterness over their father's treatment. If it bothered him so much to be mistrusted by these people who meant naught to him, what could it have felt like to be rejected by one's own father?

_How very hard and unjust your fate has been, brother mine_, he thought sadly, _and no innocent in it I have been, I fear. For were it not for my doomed love, Father might have been less cold, less unforgiving towards you. I have failed you, brother, who had no part in my shame, no part at all. Just as I am about to fail my city and our people. Just as I would, undoubtedly, fail the White Lady of Rohan who gifted her trust and hope upon me._

_How right you were to demand that you were sent out on this errand in my stead, Faramir, truer son of the Stewards than I might ever be! Surely, you could have made these people share their secrets with you. If not those haughty Elves, then, at least, that Ranger. You would have outwitted him by now. For no one, spare our Father, is as well-versed in the lore of Gondor as you are_…

He sighed. There was no use pondering over things he could do naught about. And naught, indeed, could he do against his own heart, nor could he change the hearts of all those Elves around him. He would have to wait 'til the Lord Elrond was ready to reveal his secrets. Then he would do what could be done for Gondor, the last stronghold of the Kings of Westernesse – the land that his father's fathers had defended with weapons of war and wisdom and their blood, ever since the White Tower was built. Whatever it would take to keep Gondor safe, Boromir son of Denethor, Heir of her Steward, would do it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Across the bridge, from one of the many open, gracefully arched stairways of Elrond's house, one of ''those haughty Elves'' was watching him with keen, worried emerald eyes. Legolas Greenleaf, the Prince of Mirkwood was, in truth, worried about his former travelling companion. Little had they talked during their less-than-two-days-long journey through the Wild, but all that time clearly had he felt the despair in the Man's heart.

''You might need to do something about him, Estel'', he warned the Ranger in a soft voice. ''You have to earn his trust now, ere your claim shall be announced. For we cannot know how he shall answer once he learnt about your true self.''

Strider shook his head in a helpless manner.

''I know not what I could do about him'', he admitted. ''His stubborn pride would not let me come any closer, and that we have to keep our secrets for awhile does not help. All he cares about is the safety of his precious city; for he thinks of Minas Tirith as his own, as have done his sires before him, ever since King Eärnur was lost. The Stewards of Gondor might rule in the name of the King; but they do not believe that the King might return one day – nor do they wish for it to happen, I fear.''

Legolas looked thoughtful for a moment; then he smiled, and it seemed to Strider as if grey rain-clouds had been lifted from the golden evening sky. Thus great the skill of Mirkwood's Prince was to ease other people's minds in times of trouble and doubt.

''If that is so, than you might need to show him that the hands of a King are the hands of healing'', he said. ''For he has been carrying a deep, festering wound in his heart for what seems a very long time… longer, in truth, than any lesser Man could have endured. But my heart tells me that he has come to an end of his strength, and is in desperate need of healing.''

Strider frowned. ''You speak in riddles again, my friend.''

''Well, I _am_ an Elf'', Legolas laughed quietly, ''What else would you expect from one of my kin? I know naught about the nature of this wound, for Men are strange creatures for me, and he chose not to share his pain with someone he had just met; but he seems heartbroken and hopeless – and he needs help.''

''But would he be willing to take any help from me?'' Strider asked, full of doubt. ''A very proud Man he is, Legolas – shall he ever trust me enough to let me lift the shadow from his heart? Shall I be able to heal him, even if he lets me try?''

Legolas shrugged. ''That, my friend, is yours to find out. And I suggest you to do it soon, should you want to avoid another Kintwist in Minas Tirith.''

''The safety and prospering of the White City is as dear for my own heart as it is for Boromir's'', the Ranger said solemnly, ''and I fear nothing more than become his rival in this very quest. He seems to have taken an interest in you, though, and you are more skilled in the ways of a royal court than I am, Legolas. Would you not talk to him first?''

But the Elf only shook his head gravely.

''Nay, my friend. For 'tis you who shall have to win him over, should you ever come to reclaim what is your birthright. I have naught to do with the inner struggles of your House – nor is it allowed me to interfere with the fate of other kingdoms. This much I have learnt in my long life and through my dealings with the Men of North.''

''You could, at least, give me a hint how to approach him'', the Ranger said. ''Many years have passed since I entered a court the last time – other than that of your own father which is very different from the castles of Men –, and I am no longer used to their customs.''

''I doubt that you could win him over with sweet words'', Legolas answered, ''for he would think them but Elvish lies. Yet though he might mistrust us – all of us – deeply, he still would not reject a lady's invitation to an evening feast in the Hall of Fire. He was raised to become a Ruling Steward, after all. Courtly manners are in his blood.''

Strider eyed him warily. ''Are you telling me… What _is_ it that you are telling me, my Prince?''

Legolas batted his lashes in mock innocence. ''I only thought that you sould ask your lady to invite him to the feast. Once he is among us, you can approach him more easily. Besides'', he added with a wicked grin, ''I heard that the little ones shall not join us tonight. The Ring-bearer is still weakened and Glorfindel promised the others to take them to a moonlight dance.''

Strider stared at him, half amused and half annoyed. ''You are full of mischief, Legolas Greenleaf. More so, indeed, than I had ever believed.''

''Of course'', Legolas laughed again. ''I am a Wood-Elf, remember? We _are_ a merry folk.'' He hopped from the reiling he had been sitting on. ''Which reminds me that I have to take my leave from you now. My people are waiting. There still are many trees in this dale we haven't come to greet yet, and trees, moreso the older ones, can be very… sensitive. I wish not to hurt their feelings or make them angry.''

''Would the Lord Elrond not miss your presence?'' Strider asked. ''You have barely arrived and you already want to leave?''

''Elrond has enough other duties to attend to'', Legolas said merrily, ''and I am not leaving. I just have to visit some old friends – _very_ old ones, indeed – in the walley, who cannot come and visit me themselves.

With that, he jumped down from the third-level stairway, landing smoothly on his feet like a big cat, and – still laughing – sprinted light-footed towards the bridge. Strider looked after him, shaking his head. Now matter how much time he spent among them, Elves never ceased to astonish him. And Wood-Elves were a strange folk, indeed, even as Elves go.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Boromir had, of course, recognized the Prince of Mirkwood, running over that perilously narrow bridge like a steady-footed deer – though while in Imladris, Legolas abandoned his rough grab and wore clothes that matched better his true heritage. For a moment he almost hoped the Elf would come to visit him – for Legolas seemed a lot less haughty to him than the Elfes of the dale, and surely great fun, moreso when he went on to talk of his beloved trees –, but soon enough he understood that the Prince only came to collect his escort.

A few heartbeats later all five Wood-Elves left the guest house again, wearing long, soft cloaks that were coloured somewhere between silver and moss-green and made them look like young birches. To his surprise they set off not towards the main house but away from it, deeper into the walley.

''They shall be out in the woods all night, singing to the trees they had not spoken to for many seasons, and dancing in the moonlight'', a soft, lyrical voice said, followed by the quiet laughter of a woman.

Boromir turned, surprised that he had not heard her approach, for his keen ears got used to the light footsteps of Elves in those recent days. On the other end of the balcony, where an open archway led to the main gate of the guest house, a tall and slender woman stood, clad in a mantle of silver and blue, fair as the twilight in Elven-home; her dark hair strayed in the light breeze, and her brows were bound with gems like stars.

Young she was and yet not so, her pale face flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night; and thought and knowledge were in her glance, as of one who has known many things that the years bring – and a faint shadow of deep sadness that seemed so unlikely on such a beautiful face.

''Forgive me, my lady'', the son of Denethor said with a slight bow, ''I did not hear you coming. How can I be of service?''

The woman smiled; a soft, ethereal smile, yet queenly and somehow full of hidden sorrow. In a way it reminded him of the Lord Elrond, who, too, carried the marks of mortality on his ageless face.

''I came on an errand of my father'', she answered mildly.

''Your father?'' Boromir frowned. Certainly she could not be… But the woman nodded simply.

''Forgive me, my good sir, for I forgot my manners. Awen, Elrond's daughter is my name, though I am also called Undómiel.''

''Undómiel… the Evenstar of the Elven people'', Boromid murmured in astonishment. ''Aye, I have heard about you, lady… from my brother, who, at times, could make Mithrandir teach him Elven lore. Yet I always thought you were but a myth.''

''That is true… for all those songs that were sung about me have little to do with who I truly am'', Arwen responded serenely. ''And were I born to another family, there would not be many minstrels who felt the need to make songs about my beauty. Were I not the daughter of Elrond, no-one but my own family would notice me.''

''That I doubt greatly'', Boromir answered, ''and it would be a great loss for us all.''

For though no woman had caught his eye in his whole short and harsh life (for what were forty years of brutal struggle in the eyes of Elves?), the Lady Arwen filled his heart with awe. So unlike she was all the Elves he had met during his stay in this walley – and yet so very Elven, more so than even the others of her kin. And she seemed to know the hearts of mortal Men more deeply than anyone else.

''What does the Lord Elrond require from his humble guest?'' he then asked, recovering a little from his mild shock. Arwen smiled.

''There shall be a feast on this eve in the Hall of Fire. My brothers have returned from their long hunt in the Wild and shall be properly greeted, with food and songs and wine. My father asks you to join us tonight.''

''All of a sudden?'' Boromir suspiciously asked. ''Does he not worry that I might hear things that were not meant for my ears?''

''Unlikely'', Arwen quietly laughed, ''unless you consider the lays about the Elder Days as such things. 'Tis a feast only. But my father realized that he had been neglecting his duties as your host, and my brothers would like to share stories of Orc-hunts with you.'' She paused, then added with mischievously twinkling eyes. ''I would understand if you hesitated, though. Elladan and Elrohir can grow tiresome at times. Moreso when they get into one of their tall tales about hunting.''

Boromir shifted uncomfortably. ''I am certain that your brothers are among the finest Elves in Middle-earth, lady'', he said. ''Yet I do not feel like going to a feast tonight.''

''All too well can I understand your anxiety'', Arwen replied with a smile. ''It is not easy to be the only Man in a valley full of Elves. Even Estel feels the need to escape us every time and again, though he was brought up under my father's roof. And yet, it would honour us greatly if you decided to join us tonight. Not very often do we have the delight to greet someone from the South-kingdom at our table.''

''Truth is'', Boromir told her'', I have been here for several days by now. No-one seemed to desire my company greetly.''

''Nor have you been very forthcoming, either'', Arwen countered without a beat. ''You managed to shake off Estel on your first day here – not many people could have achieved _that_.''

''I did not mean to insult him'', Boromir began, a little ashamed, but Arwen quieted him with a small wave of her graceful hand.

''Yes you did. But never mind; 'tis good for him to meet someone who can resist his will. Too long has he been giving orders and making decisions for those under his lead. Sometimes he forgets that not everything – or every one – around him can be controlled.''

''And you, lady, surely are one of those yourself'', Boromir said gallantly, yet he meant it. Arwen Undómiel seemed not the woman who could be ordered to do aught she wished not. In a way, she even seemed more steely than the Lady Éowyn – and certainly a lot more powerful, without the need to wield a sword.

''Truly, I am'', Arwen replied, ''much to my father's dismay.'' Then she added with a smile: ''Now that we do agree on _this_ one, would you not change your mind and come to our feast? I would very much like you to meet my brothers… I do believe that Elladan would be more to your liking than all the other Elves in this dale.''

''He would?'' Boromir said, doubtfully. Arwen nodded with a knowing smile.

''He would. And he, too, would love to meet you, I am certain of _that_ as well. For though never had Imladris any dealings with Gondor, often has my brother spoken with longing of visiting your white city one day.''

Boromir still hesitated a little. What Arwen had said about her brothers was intriguing, but he truly did not want to spend more time among all those haughty Elves than he had to. Nor did he want the Lord Elrond feeling better about himself for inviting him to his table. On the other hand, of course, he _might_ unintentionally catch some news with all the Elves chatting around merrily.

''If it is your wish, Lady Arwen, I shall obey'', he finally gave in, and Arwen smiled again.

''Truly, it is. And grateful I am that you generously grant me this little wish. I shall send Lindir to guide you to the Hall of Fire.''

With that, she retreated – not like any other woman would retreat; Boromir rather had the feeling she had simply vanished into thin air. If it was some Elven magic or simply skillful grace, he could not guess. But it was, in truth, a little unsettling.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

You want to see whom he shall meet on the feast? Go tho Chapter Two!


	2. Chapter 2: A Fateful Encounter

**THE BITTER GIFT OF COMPASSION**

**by Soledad**

 Disclaimer and rating as in Chapter One.

**Author's note:** as you surely realized, some of the descriptions were directly borrowed from ''the Fellowship of the Ring''.

**CHAPTER TWO: A FATEFUL ENCOUNTER**

Ere he had left Minas Tirith for this journey, Boromir made sure he took some garment with him that could be worn on formal occasions like this one. After all, he was taught to handle future allies properly. Nothing overly fancy, though, for above all else he was a warrior, but his high rank among his own people demanded to be shown time and again. Still, he had simple tastes and preferred dark colours; a deep burgundy, almost brown tunic with golden embroidery on its high collar and a dark, velvety blue jacket would do, he decided.

On a last thought he fastened the silver clasp with the White Tree of Minas Tirith upon his collar, finding some bitter comfort in the thought that far away from here there was someone who felt at least respect for him.

Lately, it was a rare thing, indeed.

He was hardly finished with preparations when one of the Elves – he supposed it had to be Lindir, though it felt hard to keep all those fair faces apart – came by and escorted him to the main house once again. This time they entered it through a different archway that led directly into the great hall where Elrond used to have his feasts with his guests.

The vast hall was filled with folk; Elves for the most part, though there were a few guests of other sorts whom Boromir could not recognize. Elrond, as it was his custom, sat in a great chair at the end of a long table upon the dais; and next to him on the one side sat two tall, dark-haired, grey-eyed men – their fair faces smooth and ageless, and thin circlets of silver were upon their brows. Very alike they were and bore a great likeness to Elrond, too, so they had to be the twin sons of Imladris' master. On Elrond's other side, there stood an empty seat.

In the middle of the table, against the woven clothes upon the wall, there was a chair under a canopy, and there sat the Lady Arwen, seeming a lot more queenly than even the previous afternoon. For her dark hair was ceremonially braided now, like a coronet, and above her brow her head was covered with a cap of silver lace netted with small gems, glittering white; but she had taken off her richly adorned cloak, and her soft grey raiment had no ornament save a girdle of leaves wrought in silver.

And on her side, to Boromir's surprise, sat Strider; his dark velvet cloak was thorn back and he was clad in Elven-mail, and a white diamont in the shape of a star shone upon his breast. Truly, he seemed more to belong to this Elven household than to his own Kin, and Boromir started wondering just who this Ranger might be.

Yet before he could have followed his suspicious thoughts much further, he was seated across the Lady Arwen – a place of great honour in Elrond's house –, and shortly after the feast had began, Legolas appeared as of thin air and took the empty seat on Elrond's side. He wore the long, soft silvery-green cloak Boromir had seen on him and his people while leaving the guest house, but beneath that a long robe of the same soft material, girdled with a belt of golden leaves. At this very moment he truly looked every bit of the Prince he was – and, strangely, a lot less youthful and undisturbed than usually.

Boromir shot the Lady Arwen a surprised look. ''It seems he shall not be out dancing in the moonlight amongh the trees on this eve'', he said, tilting his head slightly towards the Wood-Elf.

''Nay'', Arwen responded quietly, a disturbed furrow marring her smooth brow. ''He has to be in desperate need of news from the Wild when he abandoned his beloved trees for the stone walls of this hall so soon. Has he said aught to you, Estel?''

The Ranger, now clad like an Elven prince, shook his head. ''Naught; but he was not very forthcoming with news from Mirkwood all these days, either. Something must have gone wrong in his father's realm.''

''Then why would he not tell you about it?'' Boromir wondered. ''Are the two of you not old friends?''

''_Very_ old friends, as Men count time, like I already told you'', Strider answered, somewhat irritated, ''but it has been the wish of Elrond that such matters shall only be discussed in the Council. And since this is his house, we all have to respect his wishes.''

That made Boromir thoughtful and he talked very little throughout the rest of their meal, watching the others around him – the sons of Elrond above all, for they amazed him to no end. Through very alike they seemed at the first sight, as time passed, he managed to make out small differences – very small ones, more in the manner they carried themselves than in their looks.

As they spoke together – and with Legolas and their father as well –, and Boromir kept watching them, the one that sat next to Elrond turned towards him for a fleeting moment, as if he had felt being watched, and the light of his keen grey eyes fell on Boromir from afar and pierced his heart.

''That one is Elladan'', the Lady Arwen mentioned with a slight smile, and Boromir turned away his glance in embarrassment for having glared at Elrond's eldest that openly.

At length the feast came to an end. Elrond and Arwen rose and went down the hall, and the guests followed him in due order. The doors were thrown open, and they went across a wide passage through other doors and came into a further hall. In it were no tables, but a bright fire was burning in a great hearth between the carven pillars upon either side.

Boromir found himself walking with Elladan – which surprised him, for he could not remember seeing Elrond's son to leave his father's side and wait for him. The Half-Elf was somewhat taller than he – not overly so, a mere one or two inches maybe… only as much as Faramir –, and was clad in heavy ceremonial robes like Elrond himself. Yet the manner he moved told clearly that he would be more comfortable in a mail shirt, and there was a certain hardness in his fair face that could not be found on other Elves, not even his own kindred. Also, he seemed more broadly built than Elves usually were, in spite of his great likeness both to his father and brother.

''This is the Hall of Fire'', he said without a preambe; his voice, too, was deeper and less soft than Elrond's. ''Here you shall hear many songs and tales – if you can keep awake. But except on high days it usually stands empty and quiet, and people come here who wish for peace and thought. There is always a fire here, all the year round, but here is little other light.'' Then he paused for a moment, looked at Boromir intently and added: ''I am called Elladan.''

''I know'', Boromir nodded, ''the Lady Arwen told me a moment ago. She also meant that I might get along with you a lot better than with all the other Elves here; though I cannot understand why that would be so.''

Elladan laughed quietly. ''So, my little sister was eager to introduce you to the prodigal son of Elrond's house? Mayhap she hoped I would look… finer, more Elven in the company of a mortal Man. But she is right, of course'', he added wrily. ''I am not what one would expect from Elves, and sometimes that disturbs my father greatly.''

Boromir raised an eyebrow in askance. ''Truly? In what way?''

Elladan did not answer him immediately, guiding him instead to a farther, more private part of the Hall of Fire, where they could sit almost unseen in the shadow of a pillar, on a beautifully carved, low wooden bench. Then he went to bring them some wine.

As Elrond entered and went towards the seat prepared for him, Elvish minstrels began to make sweet music, playing harps and flutes and other instruments – Boromir could not even guess what they were. Slowly, the hall filled and he looked with awe upon the many fair faces that were gathered together; the golden firelight played upon them and shimmered in their hair, and he could not help but think how much Faramir would enjoy a night full of beauty and Elven music.

This turned his thoughts towards the other tall, grey-eyed man who sat next to him, deep in thoughts – which did not seem to be very joyful ones, either. Elladan must have felt his gaze, for when everyone was seated and all attention turned to the minstrels, he poured some wine into Boromir's goblet and began to speak in a low voice.

''A disturbance I am for the Lord of Imladris, for it is said that more alike my mortal ancestors I am than my Elven sires – which is strange, for I have very little mortal blood in my veins, indeed. Three generations have gone by since Tuor son of Huor wedded Idril Celebrindal in the hidden city of Gondolin and mixed the blood of the Noldorin Kings with that of mortal Men. That is a long time, even for Elves. Yet his heritage, for some unknown chance, is stronger in me than it has ever been in anyone of our family… and it makes me different.''

This surprised Boromir greatly, for he had begun to believe that Elves would look down on Men in dismay. Never had he considered, though, that it would include one of their own for the blood of mortal Men in his veins.

''How does it show?'', he asked.

Elladan took a sip of his own goblet; his eyes seemed to look inwards and there was pain on his fair face. ''Surely you must be well-versed in the lore of Númenor, being the Heir of Gondor's Steward'', he said. Boromir nodded.

''I know much about Westernesse, its Kings and Queens and its fall'', he answered, ''yet the one who is wise in lore is not me but my brother. He always had been more fond of books and music than of weapons of war, to the great dismay of our Lord and father, who wished both his sons to be hard-hearted warriors.'' He simled wrily. ''Mayhap you should have born to our family and Faramir to yours. Then both our fathers would be more content and the two of you would have more peace.''

There must have been a slight trembling in his voice, for Elladan gave him a strange look, and Boromir got the uncomfortable feeling thal Elrond's son could read him like an open book.

''Being soul-bound is common among brothers who are of close age'', said Elladan softly. ''However different we might be, I would not wish to be apart from Elrohir, not even if it would please my father to have a son who does not stand out from his Elven court through the sometimes harsh demeanor of his mortal blood. And it pains me greatly that one day I might have to say farewell to my brother. When he departs over Sea, he shall take part of me with him – the better part, I fear, that I shall be missing for my remaining days.''

''Why should your roads part?'' Boromir asked, confused. ''Are not all Elves meant to leave for the Undying Lands, one day or another?''

''They are'', Elladan nodded thoughtfully, ''for they would fade away and perish otherwise. But like all of Eärendil's children, I, too, was given the choice between the Blessed Realm and Ilúvatar's gift for mortal Men, and when my brother sets sail for Eressëa, I fear I shall not be with him on that ship.''

Boromir remained silent for several heartbeats, considering the weight of what he had just been told.

''So you chose to become mortal?'' he asked in utter disbelief. ''Why would you do such a thing?''

Elladan smiled ruefully. ''I would not be the first of our family to take that choice, as you certainly know. For had my father's brother not chosen the life of mortal Men, Númenor would never have had a King. All those Lords whom your ancestors had so faithfully served through countless centuries, descended from our family.''

He paused for a moment, thinking.

''But I know not yet how I shall choose'', he then continued, ''for though I might be the only one of Noldorin blood who cannot hear the siren song of the Sea, I do know that 'tis already tearing on Elrohir's heart, and I know not whether at the end I would be strong enough to let him go alone.''

''How very close the two of you must be!'' Boromir said in awe. ''Tis said that twins are soul-bound by nature – but you have had countless centuries to strengthen that bond of yours that had once been forged in your mother's womb.''

He felt his own voice betraying him – it trembled once more, with envy and longing, his heart wondering whether he would see his brother again. Elladan gave him that piercing gaze again – then his steel-grey eyes softened in understanding.

''Not that way as you seem to believe'', he answered gently, ''for though it is known to have happened among Elves, that kind of love is rare and almost ever leads to disaster and great pain. But we are very close, indeed – for other reasons.''

''Which ones?'' Boromir asked.

It amazed him that Elladan would be so open about his own inner struggles, but he guessed that it gave Elrond's son some sort of relief to be able to speak about these things with someone who would not give him that customary Elvish frown.

Elladan set down his goblet and absently tried to pull up one of his long legs, in order to rest his chin on his knee in the manner travelling people do it at a campfire. Restricted by his long, heavy ceremonial robes, however, he could not do it; so he made a wry face and answered softly:

''Few others could ever understand how our dual heritage is tearing us apart from the inside, and only in each other can we find a kindred soul that keeps us still together… for a little while yet. For I fear that when the day finally comes, I shall not have the strength to leave Middle-earth behind, since the undying light of Valinor is not calling to me. For the love of the Elves for their land and their works is deeper than the deepths of the Sea, and their regret is undying and cannot ever wholly be assuaged. Alas, that this seems to be the only thing that is really Elvish in my heart!''

''Does your brother feel the same?'' Boromir asked.

''Greatly so'', Elladan nodded sadly. ''He is the truest Elf from all of Elrond's children, going more after our mother than after the Lord of Imladris. Thus not only the Sea-longing of Elves is tearing on his heart constantly, part of him is desperately holding on to the immortal trees of the Golden Wood where our mother came from.''

''Was then your mother a Wood-Elf, too?'' Boromir wondered. But Elladan only shook his head.

''Nay. But her mother is, though of Noldorin blood herself, the Lady of many Silvan folk. The Galadhrim they are called; and they dwell in houses built on treetops. Many joyful seasons had we spent with our mother's people, and Elrohir was always the most fond of those times. The trees, the songs, the dancing in moonlight touched his heart more deeply than Father would have thought. So it shall be a long time ere he might be able to leave these shores, either.''

''What about the Lady Arwen?'' Boromir knew he probably asked too much, but the deep, sorrowful secrets of Elrond's House intrigued him to no end – and they made him forget his own anguish for the time being.

A great sadness clouded Elladan's fair face upon hearing this question.

''She has already made her choice'', he said. ''A bittersweet one it is for her and a source of great grief for our father; but I am not given leave to speak about it. Should we prove able to cast the growing shadow away, it shall be shown to everyone.''

Boromir did not press the matter, partly for he knew he could not make Elladan tell him anything he did not want to tell, partly for he began to enjoy the company of Elrond's son truly. Elladan was, indeed, very different from all the Elves he had met so far – more like a Man than like the haughty sons of the Firstborn.

Which remainded him of something he had heard from Legolas during their journey through the Wild.

''I was told that the two of you often ride out to fight alongside the Rangers of the North'', he said.

Elladan nodded. ''We do.''

''Tis a little unusual for Elves, is it not?'' Boromir continued. For some reason, he suddenly wanted to know more about this man – this Elf – who, unlike the others in the valley, treated him as an equal.

''We are only Half-Elven'', Elladan responded with a shrug, ''and we were bred as warriors as much as taught the lore of our ancestors.''

Boromir glared at him in disapproval, clearly feeling that the other – for the first time on this evening – tried to avoid a straight answer.

''Yet that is not all'', he stated firmly. Elladan shrugged again.

''We have our very personal war with Orcs'', he admitted reluctantly. ''More than five hundred years ago, our mother, journeying to Lothlórien once again, was waylaid in the Redhorn Pass. We came just in time to rescue her, but she had received a poisonous wound in the caves of the Orcs. Father was able to heal her body, yet her spirit was broken, forever. She could not find any joy or beauty in Middle-earth any more, and only a year later she departed over Sea, for there was nothing left that could have kept her among us. It broke Father's heart'', he added sadly. ''Were it not for Legolas, we would have lost him as well.''

Boromir swallowed hard. The centuries-old love between the Lord of Imladris and the Prince of Mirkwood was not a thing he wanted to discuss. It remainded him too much of what he could not have.

What he could _never_ have.

''How come that both you and your brother remained alone?'' he asked. ''Surely, it would not be hard for you to find suitable spouses among your own Kin. ''You are of high birth, even as Elves go.''

''True'', Elladan agreed, ''and Elrohir, in fact, _is_ promised to a fine lady of Gildor Inglorion's kindred, from the gold-haired House of Finrod. The betrothal has been official for quite some time, and the wedding is planned after the upcoming dark times have passed – should they ever pass.''

He became silent and they sat quietly for a while, both deep in dark thoughts. Then Elladan looked up again and casually added:

''As for me, I am not the right one to enter a marriage – not with an Elven woman, at least, and I know naught about mortal maidens. I only had man-lovers so far, all my life.''

Boromir nearly choked on his wine over this off-handed remark. Elladan looked at him and smiled.

''I have heard that among most Men, moreso among those of Gondor, such a thing is heavily frowned upon – but it happens among mortal Men, too, nevertheless. Among Elves, it is cherished and celebrated just as much as other forms of love… even among brothers, though, as I said before, that is rare and usually turns out badly. I can feel the longing in your heart, son of Denethor. Why would you not let me give you comfort?''

The straightforward offer, given with that uncanny Elven lightness and grace, almost hauled Boromir from his seat. He just sat there, petrified, unable to give any answer… in truth, hardly able to even breathe.

Ere he could have won his voice back, though, Elladan leaned over without a warning, took his face into those slender hands, calloused like any mortal Man's from endless centuries of swordfight, and kissed him, gently but soundly, on the lips.

''What are you afraid of?'' the son of Elrond asked, releasing Boromir again, but not ere he brushed the hair from his temples.

''I… I have never allowed this of myself!'' Boromir whispered, almost inaudible, even for Elladan's keen Elven ears. ''For the one I gave my heart once and forever, would not, could not love me like this…''

''And you did not want to spoil your feelings by taking another lover'', Elladan finished for him. ''You are a faithful man. I respect that. But 'tis only comfort I am offering… a little joy to lift the shadow off your heart – and from mine as well. Or has your father, the Lord Steward, already betrothed you? For I want not to interfere with your life, causing you even more sorrow.''

''Nay, not yet'', Boromir said, ''but he intends to do so. And I have promised Éowyn of Rohan to wed her, should the Valar allow me to return from this quest. For trapped she is amongst the weakening walls of the Golden Hall of Meduseld and needs to be set free… and I came to respect her greatly and intend to keep my word.''

''No-one forces you to break your oath'', Elladan said, ''yet as long as your betrothal is not officially announced, you are free. Why do you want to deny yourself?''

''What could you possibly need of me?'' Boromir returned the question. ''I am but a Man. A Man of high birth among my own people, certainly, but a short-living, roughly-shaped creature compared with you. I know naught but war and harshness.''

''And yet you are strong and fair in your own way'', Elladan replied, smiling, ''and touching the fire of your passion warms my lonely heart and makes me feel young once again. This will not go any further than the borders of our valley – I know that and I can live with that. Yet fate has given us _now_ – and I do not intend to let it pass.''

With that, he leaned over and kissed Boromir again, longer and deeper this time, with the inevitable strength of sea-waves rolling upon the shore, and Boromir felt himself panicking.

''You should not do this'', he murmured, trembling slightly, yet not with fear only. ''What if your father notices…? He thinks me untrustworthy as it is… bedding his son would certainly not help.''

''If you are so frightened of the Lord of Imladris' wrath, we should go somewhere where he cannot see us'', Elladan gracefully rose from the bench and pulled Boromir up with him. ''Would my chambers suffice?''

Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed Boromir's arm with surprising strength and with mild force he led him out of the Hall of Fire. Once in the darkened privacy in the arched staircase, Boromir gave up his resistance and went with him willingly.

And so the son of Elrond took the son of Denethor by the hand and led him to his own chambers and comforted the tortured heart of Gondor's Heir, teaching him the love between brothers in arms.

For in times of great peril 'tis often the only thing that keeps the weary going to face new evils every morrow.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Across the hall, Legolas threw a thoughtful look after their retreating forms.

''To tell the truth, this was not what I meant when I said that something has to be done about Boromir'', he said to Elrond. ''I thought mayhap Estel could form a bond with him – a different one.''

Elrond sat in his seat quietly, firelight shining on his face like sunlight on summer leaves.

''I know'', he said, but his eyes were on the Lady Arwen and Strider who were talking in soft voices. ''But I do know as well that Elladan needs to bond with his mortal heritage every time and again. 'Tis not the first time he had taken a mortal lover and mayhap they would be good for each other – for the remaining few days Gondor's Heir spends in Imladris. After that… his path lays in darkness for my eyes.''

''I wish that Elladan could lift some of that darkness off his heart'', Legolas sighed, ''for it weights heavily upon him, and I fear that he is in grave danger.''

''He is'', Elrond responded solemnly. ''Let us hope that he would find the light of joy in Elladan's arms and so learn to trust us a little more. He shall need that trust, once Estel's claim is announced. For it has to be announced and accepted, if we wish to cast the Shadow away. We shall not have another choice. From now on, all our fates shall be interwoven.''

Legolas nodded, his face solemn as well. ''How very true… Now, would the Lord of Imladris seek to find some light and joy himself? For I have not returned to this house of stone ere the moonlight dance could have even begun to brood over the upcoming doom.''

''Oh the impatience of youth!'' Elrond laughed, but he rose from his seat nevertheless and began to stroll towards the door, followed by Legolas.

In the soft twilight no-one even noticed their departure, except the Lady Arwen, who looked after them with a fond, knowing smile.

Just as they stepped over the threshold, a single, clear voice rose in song:

A Elbereth Gilthoniel,  
silivren penna míriel  
o menel aglar elenath!  
Na-chaered palan-díriel  
o galadhremmin ennorath,  
Fanuilos, le linnathon  
nef aear, sí nef aeron! 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There is a Chapter 3 added to this tale, to be find on my own website, because of the new rules. You can link to it from my profile page, but please consider that it is for adult readers only. Thank you.


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